


Affliction

by NorthernLights37



Series: Lamentation [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, But is dark really BAD?, Companion piece to Lamentation, Dany POV, DarkJon and DarkDany if you insist, F/M, Fire Magic, Freeform, Fuck Westeros, Is DarkFluff a thing?, Resurrection, Romance, dragon hatching, i don't think so, post-season 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:28:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21589963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernLights37/pseuds/NorthernLights37
Summary: Affliction:  noun, a state of pain, distress or grief; miseryDany POV, companion piece to "Lamentation"
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: Lamentation [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555984
Comments: 18
Kudos: 114





	Affliction

**Author's Note:**

> Dany's story, post-Season 8 (if we wanna act like that exists) that runs concurrent to "Lamentation". You should really read that first. This is a lot like that, in terms of the way it is written.
> 
> I mean fuck it guys I guess this is a trilogy now, consider these two pieces the prelude to Jon and Dany going full Bonnie and Clyde in the final story. Should I be writing other shit? Yes, but this thanksgiving dinner prep isn't gonna do itself, and I need to get my dark shit out before my mother-in-law comes over tomorrow and starts in with her bullshit.
> 
> As always, boo boos are my own, I'll fix 'em when I can.

In the flames, she is reborn.

In the flames, she is resurrected.

In the flames, she lives, truly, for the very first time.

She is confused, when she first awakens, on a cold stone slab.

She is terrified, her mind still caught between death and life, the face of the one she loved, her greatest betrayal, still etched inside the lids of her eyes.

It is the face she hates.

It is the face she loves.

She screams, for hours on end, until her throat is hoarse and raw, and robed figures bring her water, and food, and try as best they can to soothe her.

High above, she hears the screams of her son, and it is only then that she finds a modicum of peace in this strange place.

Drogon is here.

He will protect her.

He is the only one who can.

\----------

When they speak to her, these priests and priestesses of R’hllor, it is in whispers. Their faces are hidden, shrouded in crimson, but their faces do not matter.

That is what they tell her.

She burns with furious anger, longs to climb atop her great black dragon and show Westeros what terrors she can truly bring.

But there is something that stirs within her, and she dare not risk the danger.

That is what they tell her.

She carries a babe, a life most precious and rare, for it was not just her heart that received R’hllor’s sweet, fiery embrace.

He is the Chosen, the one most holy to them, these followers of the Red God.

Within her womb, growing by the day, rests the Prince who was Promised.

She must take care.

That is what they tell her.

She believes them, because there is nothing else to do, no other option available to her. This place is a gilded prison, and she is spared no luxury, no want left unfulfilled.

When, in her fifth month, her belly swelling, she craves only a particular variety of fig, they are found, and presented to her with great fanfare and flourish.

They are here to serve her.

She will be given every comfort.

She is the Dragon Mother, the Red Queen.

That is what they tell her.

And so, she believes, though not completely, not fully.

Not until she holds this babe in the cradle of her arms.

\---------

She births her sweet boy in a bed of fire, pulls him free of her body with her own two hands. Only she can dwell amidst the dancing heat. And in the haze of smoke, wet with the salt of her tears, he comes, he takes that first, screaming cry of life, and she is reborn once more.

They tend to her, and her babe, and for one turn of the moon there is nothing sweeter in the world but to awaken each day and press her cheek against his silver, downy hair.

He has his father’s face, she can see it already, but in the face of *this*, she finds her hatred seeps away, for now she sees what she could not before.

They were both of them, used, pushed to the brink, but she has reaped a reward he has not.

Or so she thinks.

One turn of the moon and he is taken from her, squalling and squealing for his mother as hooded figures carry him away.

He is her sweet treasure, her fire-eyed boy, and they restrain her for a week in a sparse, damp spell, as she cannot stop from striking at all who come near her, will not rest until she sees him.

Kinvara comes next.

Daenerys remembers her, and she sees the pity in the woman’s eyes as she sits across a small wooden table, piling books high upon the surface.

“The Red God has given you a most precious gift, dragon daughter. But such gifts must be earned. Your penance must be paid, and then you shall see your sweet prince again.” The woman braces her hands upon the table, as though she expects another violent outburst.

But Daenerys sits.

She thinks.

She will do anything to see her boy again.

And she knows what she has done.

She took many lives, that terrible day.

And now, at last, comes the price.

“Swear it,” she finally says, quietly, her hands trembling with the rage she barely contains.

“I would not lie to you,” Kinvara says, and Daenerys gives a bitter laugh.

“Everyone lies,” she retorts, her eyes dancing along the spines of the books. “I want my son.”

“You shall have him,” comes the smooth reply, and when their eyes meet Daenerys determines that perhaps Kinvara speaks the truth. “Once a week, he shall be brought to you. It would not do, for him to forget the face of his mother. But not alone. Not yet.”

She slams her hands down on the table, now, tired of these games. “Have I any choice?” She bites the words out, making no effort to hide her contempt.

Sadly, Kinvara shakes her head. “No,” she finally responds, and traces a hand across the top of the stack of tomes. “But these should help you pass the time between.”

She breathes in, and out, and fights for control. “What are they?”

“Things you must know, for what is to come.”

She leaves, and Daenerys swipes a furious hand across the table, knocking the books to the floor. She crosses the cramped room to her small bed, and weeps, her breasts heavy with milk, her heart heavy with pain.

\---------

Three more moon turns, and she understands.

Her rage dissipates, and blows away, turned to dust in the face of what she has finally learned.

The books they bring her speak of prophecies, and magic, of forces unknown and sights yet unseen, of what has been and what will be.

She understands, at last, that everything that has transpired has been necessary.

And while she treasures each beloved moment with her babe, there is another truth she understands. He is more than that.

So much more.

He is the fire that will burn the world, will purify it, make it clean again. He is the blaze that rages and razes, to make room for what is new.

He has a destiny he must grow into, and just as the red robed serve her, so she must serve him. She is the Dragon Mother.

She is the Red Queen.

They have not lied to her.

She consumes each tome, makes careful notes, so vast in scope that soon she is writing on the walls of her small quarters, each piece of knowledge she uncovers becoming part of a much greater whole.

She is mad, she knows it, has been slowly descending into this from the moment that blade pierced her skin. But it is what she must be, who she must be.

She can no longer care for other, more worldly concerns, not yet.

Hers is a singular focus.

Aerion.

He is what matters, and she will plot and plan and scheme, bring the world trembling to its’ knees without remorse, or shame, if she must.

No harm must come to him.

She must protect him.

She must be ready.

So, she gathers the threads that have been scattered, and in a year and a day she has woven them together, has seen the tapestry they become. She has an inkling of what he is, this babe born amidst salt and smoke and flame, but she dares not speak it aloud. Even amongst R’hllor’s most devout, she thinks they might call her mad.

But it matters little, what others think. The path forward is clear.

And now, if she looks back, she is truly lost, for nothing that transpired before has a hold upon her. It doesn’t matter, it is meaningless in the larger picture she has seen in her mind, this grand design she has pieced together.

In her heart, she forgives him, though she cannot allow herself to even think his name.

That pain is too sharp, too fresh, still.

But she knows she must let go of her hate.

Without him, she would not have Aerion.

And Aerion is everything.

\---------

It is just past Aerion’s second name day, and preparations are being made for a grand feast.

She plays with her boy in a small courtyard, watching him roll and play in the sweet summer grass. She tickles his feet, and his topaz eyes are warm and full and set solely on her.

She is completely content.

Kinvara comes in, breaking their peace, but by now she is a close to a friend as Daenerys will allow.

“I must take my leave, My Queen, for R’hllor has set a task for me.”

Daenerys nods. She does not want to ask, but she has seen the red comet in the sky, and red comets have always and ever signaled the work of dragons.

“You go to Westeros,” she says finally, for she has been dreaming of him.

She is never close to him, in these dreams, always watching him from afar. He is alone, and lost, and adrift in his misery.

His guilt consumes him, and at first this had pleased her, that he pays his own penance.

But now, she pities him, for she has this most precious part of him, and he despairs, alone.

There is no hate left in her, no resentment, no anger.

Not when she sees him so clearly, in her son’s face.

“He is not ready to face his destiny, I fear. Not yet.” Kinvara truly sounds sorry, as though she knows the most secret wish of Dany’s heart, as though she can see so very clearly the longing that has begin to build for him.

Daenerys tickles Aerion’s little feet, tugging at tiny toes as the boy giggles happily.

“Take care, my friend, and return soon. Our Prince grows older by the day, and I would see him protected.”

She gathers her son in her arms, and he pats her cheeks, as though he senses the ribbon of worry she cannot fight.

There is nothing she can do, as she walks with him to the temple, to the shrine of R’hllor.

Nothing but this.

She kneels, and he mirrors her, and babbles a mix of silly words and the name of the Red God as she closes her eyes, and prays that the man across the sea will surrender, at last, to this fate that has swallowed them both whole.

\---------

When her son’s seventh name day nears, the red comet streaks the sky once more.

She knows what it means, but she cannot spare him more than a thought.

She is going on an adventure, with her little lad. He has told her there is a task they must perform, the two of them, together.

And when Aerion’s decrees it, the red robes take heed. He is R’hllor’s most devout follower, but the others…

They look upon him as if he is their Red God, made flesh, and this is the secret she knows.

And she thinks it must be madness, to believe that this is what she has wrought, but it makes a strange sort of sense to her, and if it is true madness then she embraces it.

Let them call her mad.

She has borne a God, and she will see him grown.

She will witness his mighty works.

She will be his right hand, his constant protector, until another comes, to play his part.

Aerion tells her they will take Drogon, and fly for lands unknown, and there he will find what he searches for, relics he has seen in the flames, things he will not speak of to anyone but her.

Even for his mother, he divulges little in the way of detail.

She doesn’t care.

She will do anything for him.

If he is a God reborn, then so be it, but he is also her son, he is her blood, her flesh, her greatest accomplishment, and she will protect what is hers until her last breath flees from her body.

And so, as Kinvara takes her leave, Daenerys and Aerion fly for the Shadowlands, for the mysteries that await them.

It is Aerion who guides her, tucked close against her body, his hands lighting on top of hers as Drogon beats his mighty black wings. Her dragon is so large, now, that he is a mountain of scales and flames, and there is no joy so pure to her than to be high above it all, with her precious boy close.

This is what she was meant for, and when he smiles, she knows she would pay it all again.

There is no pain, in the past, anymore.

There is only now, and what is to come.

When they land, he bids her stay, tells her he must perform the rest of the journey alone.

Now she knows fear, but he gazes at her, solemn and still, and never has his father been so clear in his face. It steals her breath, makes tears gather in her eyes, and she spares a thought for him at last, hopes that he has realized the futility of his fight. She yearns for him, for the first time in years, truly yearns to feel his strong arms around her once more, and Aerion circles his arms around her neck, hugging her tight.

“He will come, Mother. The hour draws close, now. We shall not wait much longer.” He begins to walk away, leaving her with her black dragon, her first son. “I will return by sunrise tomorrow, sweet Mother. Do not fear for me.”

He leaves, and she tries to be brave.

She tries not to worry, but she is his Mother.

She does not sleep.

She simply waits.

Above all else, she has learned to trust him. He speaks no lies, is only capable of truth, no matter how terrible it may be.

This is something she has learned. The truth is neither fair, nor foul. It simply is.

She toys with the notion all night, until the sun has risen again in this barren wasteland.

Her son returns, and his arms are full, and she gasps aloud when he draws near enough that she can clearly see what he holds.

Two dragon eggs he brings, one of cream and one of red, and his smile is the sun in the sky, bold and blazing bright. His joy is contagious, and he carefully hands the red egg to her, raising the cream to rest against his cheek and closing his eyes in sweet contentment.

“Oh, Mother,” he breathes, “are they not beautiful?”

He has made his choice, she sees, as he strokes a fond hand upon the creamy white egg he still holds. She knows the way of these things, she who called the dragons from the stone. “So very beautiful, sweetling. Do you fare well?”

He nods, and hugs her close, his head resting against her stomach, his arm looped around his chosen egg. He carries it close to him the whole journey back, the red egg tucked safely away in her satchel.

She does not ask about it.

In her heart, she knows who it belongs to.

\---------

The day after Jon hatches his small, red dragon, Kinvara comes to her chambers.

Taking her arm, the priestess leads her to a sacred chamber, a small square portrait hanging on the wall. It is a small scene, something abstract but beautiful, and together they stand before it, looking upon each swirl and pattern and line, until finally Kinvara speaks.

“This,” she said, raising a slim hand, “is the before. This is all most people will understand, Daenerys. A fragment. A scrap. One small piece of a much larger design.”

Daenerys says nothing. She has felt off-kilter since she saw his face, her balance thrown, unsettled, unsure.

Kinvara releases her and walks to the wall, and in both hands she takes the square of canvas. She walks, and Daenerys follows, to another chamber. In this room there are many portraits, none quite the same, one corner blank, the pattern incomplete.

The portrait in the priestess’s hands finds a home, on that wall, and in one small motion the picture is complete, the pattern unveiled, and Daenerys thinks it is like a song, a melody that her eyes can see. It is everything and nothing. It is whatever she believes it to be.

“Few,” Kinvara says near her ear, “will ever truly know their place in this design. Fewer still may choose. But you are not like everyone else, are you, Daenerys?”

“No,” she answers, clearly. She is not suited for modesty. She has understood for some time that though her path has been frought with sorrow, and pain, that she is bound for greater things. A grand destiny sits before her, and she has naught but to take it, in both hands.

She is one small square, and she has found her place.

“He has a place here, as well.” Kinvara does not look at her, the woman’s eyes lingering upon the wall. “He has his part to play. Will you let him play it?”

She takes a deep breath, searches herself, for she has grown to used to Aerion’s penchant for the truth, in all things, and she will not lie. “Yes,” she concedes, and she feels all the lighter for it. In this world, there is only him for her, and she accepts that as well. If she is one small square on this wall, he is another, and they are hung together, bound by the life they have created, for the love that lingers still, within her once-dead heart.

“Yes,” she says again, and now Kinvara’s eyes meet hers. “He is ready, now.”

\----------

Jon fits himself into their life as though he has always been there, and her joy is magnified, each day treasured, by the time he has spent a year with them.

Aerion, too, flourishes, taking to his father with an eagerness that warms her, like a fire that blazes in her soul.

She had always thought, to herself, that he would be a good father, though she had feared she would never bear such fruit.

But she has, and he is, and as they sup together, she marvels at the way father and son look upon each other. She glories in the warm affection that encircles them all, a cocoon that protects them against the world.

Another truth she has learned is this: She is not the only who would burn the world for the boy that sits between them.

Jon has been uncaged, untethered from his prior constraints, is perhaps as mad as she is. He exists only for her, for Aerion, this is what he tells her in the dark of their chambers, bathed in firelight, so beautiful she can hardly bear it. He has found the purpose and belonging his soul has pined for, and his days he spends training both mother and son, sword in hand, that none shall ever take what is his. His nights are spent abed with her, all sweat and skin and bone, and their hunger is without reason, without limits.

They are, she understands now, two halves of a great whole, always intended to be fitted together.

His wolfskin has been shed, finally, and the dragon has come, and the darkness that lurks within them both is a darkness born of love, and blood, and fire.

They are a family, and she feels whole and complete, purified and refined, tempered and forged by the Red God into the weapon she has longed to become.

Aerion chews on a grape, smiling at them both, the summer sun shining above.

“Here we are at last. We are the three heads of the dragon.”

Jon’s dark eyes flit to the boy, and there it is, that solemn regard he has passed to his son. They have spoken of this, she and her beloved, in the hours they have spent speaking of what may yet be, of the prophecies Jon’s father had once believed, the father he had never known. “Yes,” he agrees. “We are, lad.” He takes Dany’s hand, behind Aerion’s back, and threads their fingers together. “That is exactly what we are.”

\---------

Just before Aerion’s twelfth nameday, he summons them, the Dragon Mother and the Dragon Father, to the holy temple of R’hllor, to the great pit of fire at its’ heart.

He sits, amidst the flames, and they hold vigil at his side, they who gave him life. Jon knows the chants, just as she does, and as their lips form the words his hand finds hers. He is smiling at her, when she turns to look at him. It is madness, what they do, but they do it anyway.

It is greatness, what they do, and they watch over their son as he clutches at his creamy egg, his eyes closed, for three days and three nights.

They are mindless to hunger or thirst, their only focus on each other and the boy who rests inside the fire. They allow none in; this is an act best left to the dragonblooded.

And on the third day, as they chant on, their hands still linked together, there comes a cracking, and a screech, and a small, white, iridescent snout emerges.

Aerion laughs, and she does not believe she has ever felt joy like this, knows she has never loved like this.

Jon’s eyes meet hers, and he kisses her, his hand lingering at her cheek, until Aerion draws their attention again with a gentle beckoning.

“Mother, Father, look here!” His young voice is full of innocent wonder, not yet the deep timbre of a man’s, though it shall come soon. “Is he not perfect? He raises his hands, and the dragon nuzzles at his new master’s cheek, giving a contented purr.

“He’s wonderful, lad.” It is Jon who responds, and it thrills her, to the marrow of her bones, the pride in his voice a weighty thing. Jon is proud of his son, in all things, doting and tender and hard when he must be. She knows another truth: whatever mercy or tenderness that exist in him are saved only for Aerion and Daenerys. He cares for nothing else, lives for nothing else, breathes for nothing else.

That is the nature of things, now, and if it is madness then she shall be the Queen of the Mad. For this is a true happiness, and she will protect it.

She squeezes his fingers and looks at Aerion, so happy she feels as though she might burst from it. “What will you call him, sweetling?”

Aerion tips his head, staring at the dragon, and the hatchling stares back. She feels a tickle along the back of her neck, wonders if he is speaking to the creature, wonders what he is capable of, now that he holds the beast that will one day bear him.

For greatness and madness are two sides of the same coin, and she has come to believe that they are neither, because they are both, all of them, this little family that has been forged.

“I think,” her son finally says, his silver head straightening, “he shall like to be called Dawnstar.” It is hard to distinguish his stare, as he turns pleased eyes to his parents, from the flames that wreath his head, but she beams at him, this extraordinary child who does such extraordinary things.

They will make their own path, now, and she very much doubts there are any who will stop them.


End file.
